I’ve been in conversation with a few of my more advanced students lately. They’ve adopted many elements of the Practice Modes I’m building a book around, and while they certainly clear the terrain in terms of not allowing gaps in knowledge or technique to weave themselves into the weft of their playing, there is still a fairly profound disconnect between playing things well and playing them with mastery.

Ah, mastery, the elusive goal that classical orthodoxy would have you believing is somehow impossible for adult learners. What I find interesting is the common misapprehension of what it actually takes to get there: many advanced students bring a piece to perform that is not even close to performance shape, let alone mastery. Then they move on, repeating the cycle, until the sinister, ancient idea looms in the back of their head once more: you will never master anything on this instrument, you fool. It is something in you that is the issue. It’s most accurate if you say it in the whispery voice with which The One Ring calls out to Frodo.

I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it a little differently here. You must learn the rhythm. Until it is automatic. You must learn the notes. Until they are automatic. You must learn the articulations and dynamics and other artistry. Hone every note with intention and craft. ONLY THEN does practice start. Practice is repeating what you’ve learned, what is already automatic, until you would bet your life that the chance of missing something is infinitesimal.

I would be willing to wager, as someone who was extremely good at the aforementioned cycle of what is essentially self sabotage, that many of you have never mastered a single note on your instrument. Not that you haven’t played well. I am almost certain you have! Mastery is a physical sensation; a state of the nervous system as much as a set of repeatable gestures. Many students, especially long term adult learners, have become attenuated to unholy levels of anxiety, self loathing, and dread relating to their playing experience. And that becomes the baseline, so that over time, like a clenched jaw, one only realizes it’s happening when it becomes a problem, or is pointed out by someone else. Even an open string, played in the presence of an instructor or colleague, comes with a tidy parcel of doubt and perhaps a wince. Because that’s how being at your instrument feels nearly all the time.

I’m going to devote this year trying to help folks explore this stuff and come up with some solutions, the first of which I will offer below.

Step 1 is what I’ll call open awareness practice. As you start your day, whether you practice or not, make a note (it’s great to jot this stuff down; something about articulating it has a wonderful way of knocking the stuffing out of the apprehension) of what your thoughts are. As you get closer to playing, notice if and how the thoughts or feelings are changing. Notice where in your body these sensations occur. Don’t try to change them: we’re trying to inventory this stuff, not stifle or alter it…yet. Here’s an example of what an open awareness journal might look like:

07:45 wake up, low grade worry about meeting at 3, a little chest tightness, nothing serious. looking forward to practice, starting a new piece
09:00 saw someone playing on Instagram and at first it was lovely but then a wave of sadness, my whole body sort of sagged, feel a little like Sisyphus, sometimes asking why I'm even doing this.
11:00 cello lesson in an hour, sitting down to warm up and do some final practicing. brain actually a little fuzzy, hands don't always feel like my own, sometimes hard to focus on one hand, mind distracted, shoulders tight. as soon as I sit down, I'm bracing for something bad. I am disciplined, so I power through.
14:00 lesson was fun, but was almost like I dissociated; scarcely remember much, I can recall a few ideas, but not sure if they were the teacher's emphasis. buzzy and high after lesson, now I want to nap, feeling a little ashamed of how it went, but not sure why.
15:50 meeting was fine, enjoyable, actually. I'm good at some things!
16:30 watched someone play a piece on YouTube and felt inspired again, chest tightness gone; I didn't realize, but I had been carrying it since before the lesson. 
Bedtime So tired, I don't even know what my body is feeling, but my mind is exhausted and busy. Sleep usually helps. Let's try again tomorrow.  

Do this for a week and get to know what your body reacts to the places you park your brain. No commentary or shame or judgement. Just notice. The next step is going to be talking some of these feelings off the ledge, while sifting through them for what they’re really responding to. None of this has no reason; we need to listen closely and then, with great care and affection for what they’re trying to do, parse, acknowledge, and, if needed, replace the maladaptive instincts with their more functional alter egos. One step at a time.

More soon, friends.